


Report

by BD99



Series: Tumblr Prompts [6]
Category: Reigning Passions (Visual Novel)
Genre: Extortion, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Past Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:13:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26675710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BD99/pseuds/BD99
Summary: Xenia receives a report about the Heir's past, one she might wish she'd never read.
Series: Tumblr Prompts [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1940980
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Report

**Author's Note:**

> This is written as a prompt for a Tumblr page I ghost for. I write under evoedbd and post here with full mod approval and support, as do many fantastic ghost writers and mods who leave me in awe every time I read their spectacular works.
> 
> This piece has warnings for  
> Abuse  
> Extortion  
> Child Labor  
> Racially motivated attacks
> 
> "May i request hc or fic of liora, zhora, and vivienne finding out that their girlfriend had been psychologically/emotionally abused by her parents; making her use the safe word because of how triggering it was for her? For Xenia, make it Aspia’s foster parents psychologically/emotionally abused her while she was moved from house to house? Pretty Please?"

Xenia often worked hard, keeping all four hands occupied as she carved a path through her daily burdens. Keeping her hands busy let her get more done, let her ignore the simmering energy and tension beneath her ashen skin. Today, however, she did not occupy her hands with various documents. She held one solitary piece of paper between her uppermost hands, whilst her lower set gripped the arms of her chair with such ferocity one might mistake her for a sovereign preparing to declare war. And war she would indeed declare, if only it was within her power. That solitary sheet of paper trembled in her weakening grasp, crinkled whenever she forced her fingers to tighten.

Perhaps it was not the weight of the paper, after all, the page was the same as all the ones Xenia often handled. It was as immaculate as expected of a spy mistress, save for the sodden patches where her spy had evidently failed to keep the snow from touching it, and a rather telling incomplete circular stain which Xenia had no doubt would align perfectly to a flagon of Ale. No, as far as paper went, this paper was completely average. Average weight. Average colour. Horrible condition... even worse words.

Finally, Xenia had a living example for the weight of words. Words bore weight in the court, more so than amongst the common people, yet many would merely believe that a metaphor for the dangers of speaking out of turn. Many forgot the written word was far more damning, but even so, Xenia knew most could not understand how metaphor could become reality. She doubted many would read words as she did, words which made the parchment they were written upon feel like the kingdom a Monarch might hold upon their shoulders. The weight she schemed to put upon the shoulders of the true heir to the throne. 

Aspia Cross. An honest woman, named for the trees around her and the crossroads she was abandoned at. A beauty, with eyes the colour of the evergreen trees beneath the snows, filled with the fire of the Sun Goddess. A woman who was raised in winter, with a heart as warm as summer, named for spring yet filled with the cunning of autumn. Truly, a woman embodying every house, every season. A wildling with rich skin and flaming hair and dustings of freckles across a youthful face. A wildling she may have been, but Aspia had won hearts across the court. Her genuine smile had enraptured the Bard, Lyris. The soft gleam of her eyes and her gentle words had Princess Piama of Spring sinking deeper into a trusting friendship. Aspia’s raw, uncultured wit had charmed Prince Sevastian of Winter, whereas her loyalty and hidden skills with a blade had earned the genuine respect of Princess Ruelle of Autumn. Pirate and Spy mistresses alike stood ready to swear their allegiance to the Queen she would become, however that was a future vision. At the moment, Aspia was an elevated woman from the wilds. A mystery. A woman with scars few in the courts had seen, Xenia among them. She had seen those scars when she laced a wildling into fine dresses, a tapestry of lash marks down a freckled back, each a strike delivered without any sense of finesse. A senseless beating. 

This was the report which Xenia held in her hand. The tale of Aspia’s life amongst the wildling villages, things she had not rightfully exposed to anybody amongst the courts. Aspia had spoken about some of her trials, of certain bullies Xenia could not name for the sake of safety. Yet when it came to certain parts of her life, Aspia showed her cunning. Her ability to avoid giving direct answers rivalled Xenia’s ability to manipulate them free, to the point Xenia’s desperation had reached a level of betrayal that ate at her. A network of spies, the sacrifice of coin. In her search for answers for the crown, she needed answers for Aspia’s wounds. She needed to know if those who had hurt the heir were worthy adversaries.

They weren’t, Xenia found, but their cruelty surely was.

The words she saw were blurred, yet each stroke of ink was painfully clear. She could see where the spy’s hand had frozen, perhaps shocked by what he heard. Or where the quill had lingered a little too long, tip trembling, perhaps due to her spy swallowing back outrage. Each harsh stroke of ink depicted further and further depravity, the lack of information painting just as much of a picture as that which was documented. A list of foster homes, matching a list of injuries and jobs the child had held. Physical and demeaning labor which would not have been foisted on even the poorest child. Beasts had been given more respect, Xenia noted, than what was described for Aspia. It churned in Xenia’s gut, bubbling like the mucus and tar Aspia had been forced to deal with. The residue left in the cauldrons Aspia had been forced to clean. Already, Xenia knew that when she looked at the taxes of each business that she would not find listings of a wage for Aspia. No, Aspia had exchanged a childhood for her life, her labor for the meals in her belly. The pattern continued, jobs and trades, wage less days for a struggling child. A pattern of abuse and extortion, right up until the end of the page. A place where the quill had pierced the paper. Where ink splattered. Where the ale stain lingered.

Each letter was a grain of sand in Xenia’s stomach, chaffing and irritating her gut on its way to join the quicksand and boulders causing such a sinking feeling of dread. The events documented were clinical, graphic accounts of Aspia snapping at her caretakers who had chosen their other ward over her, only for the punishment to be such senseless violence a gasp broke free from the Spy Mistress. A senseless beating, one Aspia had fought back against enough to scar her attackers. Xenia had seen some of those scars, each time she brushed the flames disguised as hair aside, or buttoned up garments where Aspia could not reach. Now, Aspia’s insistence on known aid made perfect sense, it was not merely a simple wildling woman’s discomfort at the fawning, it was also a survivor’s armor against unknown attacks. 

The final words across the page made Xenia gasp, let the paper fall from her hands as they rose to cover her mouth less further sounds escape.

Once beaten, Aspia had merely used words between her wounded sounds. Delivered insults enough that her attacker had grabbed tools of his trade, then he had nailed Aspia’s ear to the floorboards. She had been left there to bleed out, to rot, until a neighbouring family found her. The family which had ultimately given her shelter. Amongst the list of injuries, one stood out to Xenia, stark and crude, much like a stroke of blood across the snows. Someone had attempted to sever the ear pinned to the floor. 

Xenia gagged, unable to hold back the sob at the realisation. Someone had tried to cut Aspia’s ear off. Possibly Aspia herself in her dazed desperation to escape. The reports stated Aspia did not remember the events, only waking after a beating, dazed and confused. Xenia had doubts. Whether Aspia remembered or not, her body did. In the way she moved, in that endearing erratic curl of hair which never seemed to stay in place. Something so innocent, which now held a darker meaning. It was hair regrown, concealing the tail end of a scar. It was hair as defiant as Aspia herself. Even displaced, it refused to die, refused to do anything save grow. Even as it grew against the crowd, it somehow fit. It was somehow a radiant completion to a glorious whole.

The Spymistress was unsure how the parchment had returned to her hand, only that she found herself sliding it neatly amongst her most personal stack of papers. The reports she would either destroy or encrypt further. Files she would never allow to see the light of day. Her betrayal of Aspia’s trust would be buried, kept in the dark, a place where she would whisper her confession and beg forgiveness. A place she would allow Aspia to decide the fate of said report. If the heir wished to read it, it would be Xenia’s cursed gift to her Queen. Should Aspia wish it destroyed, then Xenia’s fireplace would burn brighter than the Sun Goddess herself. Would burn with the righteous fire Xenia wished to cast upon those named for such a heinous crime. For now, Xenia had a court to dance amongst, and a prayer for forgiveness to compose.


End file.
